Kito Uwizeye

Every morning, just before dawn, I walk to the edge of the plantation, feeling the cool air of Lake Kivu. The coffee trees stretch over two hectares, a piece of Rwanda my family has tended for generations. We produce some of the best coffee around, and it's something I take pride in. My workers and I have built a good life here, and as the country's economy improves, we’ve shared in its growth.

But our land holds more than coffee. Just last week, while clearing a rarely touched section of the plantation, one of my workers, Jean, found something unexpected. His plow hit something hard, and as he dug further, he uncovered bones. Five skeletons, tangled in the roots of the old trees. Seeing them brought a chill to my spine. It’s been nearly thirty years since the genocide, but the memories remain raw.

Back then, I lost many family members. My parents, my brother, two cousins—all disappeared, and we never found their bodies. For years, I’ve wondered where they might rest, if they had a grave at all. Looking at those bones, I couldn’t help but wonder if they belonged to my loved ones, finally surfaced after all this time. The thought is both comforting and painful.

I reported the discovery to the local authorities. They promised to investigate, but I know this may not bring closure. There are too many stories like mine in Rwanda. Too many families left with questions that can never truly be answered.

Standing by the lake this morning, I thought of my father and the stories he told about our family's history, how much we’ve been through. At 58, I’ve seen Rwanda change in ways I never imagined, but some scars don’t fade. We move forward, working the land, tending to our crops, and carrying our memories with us. This place is part of us, with all its beauty and all its pain.